


take a chance (take my hand)

by yorus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Yearning, hand holding pt 2 electric boogaloo, pov you are miya atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorus/pseuds/yorus
Summary: You are hunger, an endless appetite, someone who will always want more.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72





	take a chance (take my hand)

You are hunger. You are hunger, an endless appetite, someone who will always want more. Another one of ‘Samu’s onigiris, a new serve, more games, more time with the ball. There are a multitude of things you desire, and half shaped plans (you have always been better at just winging it) on how to get them all. Eventually. Even if it means fist fighting a god himself. 

For every win, there is a loss. You have learned this the hard way, many, many times. 

The feeling of triumph, having made it to the finals of the interhigh in your first year, and then the decimating feeling of loss. Across the net, you met eyes for the first time, in the wake of defeat. It was only for a moment, and he didn’t look like he pitied you, but you made sure to put a challenge in your gaze anyways. 

Second place was good, you guessed, but you had two more years to climb to first place. _You have already made it this far,_ you told yourself back then, in an attempt to calm the hunger from rearing its ugly head and consuming you whole. _Next year, surely._

Next year was even worse. Fuck second place, you couldn’t even make it past the second round. Despite it all, in your third year, your traitorous heart had hoped. You were older, more experienced, and ready to face it all. You didn’t need memories of defeat. You went on to conquer what you couldn’t the year before, and it left the satisfying taste of victory in your mouth. But the next game is a repeat of your first year, first finals. You said you could not allow yourself to lose here again, but you do. You met Sakusa’s eyes across the net. 

Falling is inevitable. 

\--

With great loss comes greater gain, and you suppose the great gain here is the MSBY Black Jackals, and the solid presence of one Sakusa Kiyoomi in your life. 

He glares at you with those wide eyes, the ones that reflect a begrudging acceptance of the unfortunate name Omi-kun or Omi-omi. (It’s actually a really cute name in your opinion and you thought of it all by yourself, thank you.)

Those eyes that tell you _shut up_ or _toss here_ , and the eyes that focus on the ball slamming on the opposite side of the court with such concentration and satisfaction and almost fondness, and _man_ you kinda wish he would look at you like that too.

To you, Kiyoomi‘s eyes often let slip the things he will never say. 

( _Kiyoomi_ , who has not been Sakusa in your head for a long time now, ever since you saw those eyes again, in _your_ gym, and your hunger said _you have to have him_.)

You trust your hands, and you hope the truth you don’t really say comes through. 

Hands signify actions, signify dedication. Your hands are in constant use. There is no better body part to express yourself through. Calluses, the familiar way they slide under the ball and push it up, the way your wrist flicks the ball into the air, and the way it is slammed with no remorse into the opposite corner of the court by a wide palm. You have conquered entire prefectures with these hands. 

The way others use their hands says something too, like the way Samu offers you onigiri after a huge fight, apologies tucked in rice and folded into nori. Or the way Aran smacks you lightly upside the head with exasperated fondness when you’re being incredibly stupid. 

But Kiyoomi’s hands are often out of sight, tucked into pockets, and when not hidden away, they are covered with gloves, masked. You only really get to see them laid bare during volleyball. There, his hands are unrelenting, and wickedly nasty. You can only watch the captivating way the ball spins at his command. There are only a precious few hours of the day you get to spend with Kiyoomi’s hands, so you will yourself to never forget them. But you can’t stretch these moments and make them seem eternal. Eventually, you will forget. But time and time again, you will relearn, and you are fortunate enough to see these hands daily, even if for a little while.

Your hunger rears its head again. _Gimme more, gimme more_. It’s not enough to just have a peek for such a short time. From the glimpses you catch of his hands, they look smooth and a little bony, and your fingers itch to thread in between his. You want to see his hands in their entirety _all_ the time, to feel them slide against yours, and to press your thumbs along his wrist bones. 

Because you have never been good at holding anything back, your hands cradle a heart that is threatening to burst. There must be feeling leaking from your fingertips every time you reach for him. 

You say it in the only way you know how to. Despite all the words that constantly leave your mouth, there is only one way in which you trust yourself to be genuine. 

There is truth in the way you set the ball to Kiyoomi, a silent confession to the ceiling. This is only for yourself to know, and no one else. For now, this is enough, a way to let things out without fear of consequences. But the hunger comes back eventually, insistent. 

\--

You have been sending tosses to Kiyoomi for the better part of the last hour, only stopping around 20 minutes ago to practice your serves. He offered to receive. There is a new one you’ve been working on and trying to perfect. 

4 steps, ball goes up, then spike. 

This is the plan, in theory. In reality, it is much harder to achieve, as evidenced by the gym floor being dotted with the yellows and blues of Misaka balls. You watch another one hit the net. 

Like the arc of the ball, falling is inevitable. 

You feel it now, the world in motion. You swallow and attempt to steady yourself, because you need to. You _need_ to get this right. 

Take 4 steps. Toss the ball high, with fingers pointing upward. Jump and open your chest up. 

Bright, harsh gym lights swim in your vision. The world is in motion again, and you cannot do anything to right yourself and gravity drags you down, down, and it happens all too fast. 

You fortunately land on your knees, kneepads cushioning you from the fall. You bend over, forehead meeting the floor, breathing hard. _How lucky_ , you reflect. It could’ve been the ankle, it could’ve been any other body part giving out from under you. This is not the first time you have come extremely close to a threatening injury and it will not be the last, but it doesn’t make it any less wracking. 

You dimly register the sound of quick squeaking footsteps approaching, but you only exist in the spaces between your body and the coated hardwood surface of the gymnasium floor, still reeling from recent events. The sweat of your palms feel uncomfortable where they are, pressed flat against the ground, but you cannot bring yourself to move. 

In your haze, you have reduced outside noises to the background of your mind. There is an unexpected hand touching your back, you feel the heat of its hovering presence before it is pressed firmly into the fabric of your shirt, bringing you back into your surroundings. Logically, you know that this hand must be Kiyoomi’s, since he is the only other person in the gym, but there is something so very surreal about the fact that he is touching you out of his own volition that you are afraid to even acknowledge it out loud, if you were capable of acknowledging things out loud in this moment. Your heart is still stuck in your throat. You want to get up, to face Kiyoomi, to show him that everything is fine, you’re fine, but unshakable gravity keeps you rooted in place. 

The hand on your back- Kiyoomi’s _bare_ hand on your back, tugs once, twice, insistently at your shirt, pulling you from your place. It forces you to move, to sit up. You look everywhere but at those wide, dark eyes, you’re not ready to be seen just yet. Even the harsh white artificial lights of the gym would be more forgiving. 

He does not ask if you are okay, but you can hear the question all the same. 

“M’ not hurt,” you mumble. That much is true. 

A water bottle falls into your lap, and you recognize it as your own. 

“Drink,” Kiyoomi demands. “Drink or I’ll empty this whole thing on your head,” he says, indicating at his own bottle. 

“M’ not hurt,” you repeat.

“I don’t care,” he stresses, “just drink.”

The events of the last five minutes have already drained you, and you are too tired to argue, so you pick the bottle up with slightly unsteady hands and tilt your head back to drink. You are all too aware of Kiyoomi watching you silently, but when you shift your eyes to look back, he quickly averts his gaze. 

“Let’s go. We’re done here,” he says, already beginning to turn away and move in the direction of the volleyball cart, like he expects you to follow, like he expects you to agree.

It makes you want to protest a little, so you do. 

“I didn’t get ta finish practicin’ though,'' you say. It’s only a little out of spite. You kind of feel better now and you feel like you can get back to serving, probably. You’re mostly steady on your feet. You are hunger, and you need more. More time, more practice, more chances to get this one thing right. 

One look at Kiyoomi and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. His face is scrunched up, eyebrows knitted together. 

“No,” is all he offers before starting to scoop up scattered volleyballs and tossing them into the cart. You are left staring at the broad expanse of his back and eventually join him in clearing the rest of the gym, starting from the opposite side of where Kiyoomi is. 

When you eventually work your way closer together, you can see him gripping a volleyball in one hand, knuckles prominent and tendons highlighted. You are so absorbed in observing the way his hands frame and curl around the sphere of the ball so tightly yet carefully that you nearly do not catch the next words that fall out of his mouth. 

“I don’t want you getting hurt. At least not on my watch.”

He says it like a secret, low and directed towards the ground, as if you were never meant to hear it. You are still watching his hands, and you see the way the knuckles shift and he readjusts his hold on the ball. You want to wrap your hands around those words and pull them into your waiting chest, to store them safely within yourself. The fact that he said it, out loud and unmistakably for you, makes you want to burst. You can’t say anything to that, and don’t want to say anything, in case you open your mouth and the hourglass catching this moment is shattered, instead of the seconds slipping by and carrying it away naturally. 

He turns his back, as if he hasn’t just sent your world into motion again, and his hands disappear from sight, and once again you are left wanting more.

\--

How much longer can you keep your confessions silent? How much longer until your feelings overflow and threaten to spill from your control more than they already have? You hope that they never do. It is one thing to feel and to accept the way you feel and to endlessly want, but something entirely different to act on something that is so helpless. You would like to minimize your losses where you can so it hurts less. 

But at the same time, if you expect nothing, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you ultimately get nothing, right? And if you want something, you should attempt to get it. 

This is how you find yourself outside the locker rooms, after another round of additional practice with Kiyoomi. You made sure to shower as fast as possible to get out here first, and you look into the darkness of the gymnasium before you. 

The overhead fluorescents are off this time, the only light sources are coming from the entryway to the lockers and the bright, tall Osaka city buildings surrounding the gym, whose glow filters in through clerestory windows and lands on hardwood floors. The space is cleared empty, void of a net and all volleyballs have been stored away. When the things that make it the court you know are stripped away, this is how it stands. 

The sound of a swinging door notes that Kiyoomi has emerged from the locker room. You listen to the soft sound of footsteps before they eventually fall to a stop besides you. He floods the room with his presence. 

A glance to the side tells you that his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, as always. Your eyes eventually flick up, and you catch him already looking at you, but before you can do anything, he flushes lightly and glances away again. You can feel your cheeks reddening too, at the embarrassment of just knowing Kiyoomi was looking at you, and at another moment potentially lost, slipping through your too slow fingertips like sand. You are the one left staring, and Kiyoomi resolutely looks ahead. The silent _let’s go_ hangs in the air, he starts forward.

Your hand reaches out of its own accord, and tugs at his sleeve, the part just slightly above the wrist, not hidden within his pocket. Once, twice, you pull gently, to not startle him and just enough to get him to stop in his tracks and turn. 

He is within your reach, and it makes the hunger, the desire for something a little more, curl low in your stomach. It’s even more surprising that he doesn’t immediately wrench away from your grasp. You don’t have to look to know he is fixing you with an intense, questioning gaze. You look anyways, at the planes of his face that are both highlighted by the subtle light filtering into the gym and thrown into deep shadow like the rest of the surrounding darkness. You look anyways, at the pretty curls that fall over the left side of his face, at wide eyes and soft cheeks. 

You exhale. You didn’t really prepare for this, there is no plan, no predetermined play. Your heart beats in quick anticipation, and you swallow around the reality of the situation you’ve put yourself in. You are choosing here and now, because it feels right. 

_Take the fall, take the fall._

“Kiyoomi. I really really like ya,” you start, attempting to draw on the confidence you usually wear like a second skin. “So let’s—”

“Okay.” 

The answer comes simply and direct, uncomplicated. He catches you with two syllables. It throws you off a little, you kind of thought it would be a much more wordy and long kind of thing, for it to take a little more convincing. 

“Omi-Omi, ya didn’t even let me finish!” you exclaim. You watch his lips curl into something like a smile, small and (hopefully) fond, and feel your cheeks bloom a little. 

You feel the fabric of the sleeve you are still holding shift, your hand is shaken off, grasping at empty air, but seconds later, there is a warm pinkie snaking around your own. The raw skin to skin contact has you bursting, hunger satiated and satisfied. It tells you, _yours, yours_. Now that you have it, you would not dream of letting go. You wind your finger tighter around his and give your joined hands a little swing. 

His finger curls around yours in an answering promise. _This is only for you, only for you_

**Author's Note:**

> hii thank you for reading !  
> shoutout to [rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna) for the beta  
> title taken from [lowkey- niki](https://open.spotify.com/track/5TTXEcfsYLh6fTarLaevTi?si=eVoDCU6tS9O4GZje7Rc_Jg)  
> you can find me on twitter [@yoruuss](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS)


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